


In Vino Veritas

by telperion_15



Category: Primeval
Genre: Angst, Community: smallfandomfest, Drunkenness, Friendship, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth will always out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a birthday fic for reggietate, and for the smallfandomfest prompt 'Nick/Stephen, in vino veritas'.
> 
> Spoilers for episodes 1.01 and 1.06.

“Professor Cutter?” Stephen pushed open the door of the office nervously. “Professor Cutter?” he said again. “Are you in here?”

There was no direct response, but then Stephen heard the clink of glass on glass, telling him that Cutter _was_ in residence. He shut the door quietly and stepped softly down the stairs.

As he approached the desk the reek of alcohol hit him hard. Cutter was slumped in his chair, head in his hands. A tumbler and a half-empty bottle of Scotch were on the desk.

“What do you want?” Cutter asked tiredly.

Stephen cleared his throat awkwardly. “I heard about what happened,” he said. “I wondered if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Do you know where my wife is?”

“What? No.”

“Then what exactly can you do to help me?”

“I don’t know. I just thought…”

“Well, don’t, okay!” snapped Cutter. “Don’t think! Just go away!” He snatched the tumbler up and downed its contents in one swallow.

But when Stephen didn’t move, Cutter narrowed his eyes at him in anger. Stephen couldn’t help noticing how bloodshot they were.

“Why are you still here?” Cutter asked dangerously.

“I want to help,” Stephen repeated.

“My wife and I were fighting. Did you know that?” Cutter asked abruptly.

“I…” How could Stephen tell the professor that yes, he had known that? That Helen had constantly told him what a terrible husband Cutter was? That Stephen hadn’t really believed her, but that he’d been too blinded by lust to ever really call her on it?

“Well, we were,” continued Cutter, seemingly oblivious to Stephen’s lack of response. “I loved her so much, and yet we couldn’t seem to be in the same room without an argument starting. We fought on that day. The day she disappeared. And now I’ll never be able to tell her I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know that. She might…”

“Shut up! You’re just a student, Stephen! My personal life is none of your business! Why can’t you just leave me alone? Go on, just go!”

Stephen went.

*   *   *   *   *

Sighing, Stephen acknowledged to himself that bringing Cutter out to the pub on tonight of all nights probably hadn’t been the best idea.

He’d been trying to take Cutter’s mind off what day it was, but the plan had backfired rather spectacularly, and now he was stuck in a pub he’d never be able to show his face in again with an increasingly drunk and maudlin Cutter.

“A whole year,” the professor rambled. “She’s been gone for a whole year. No letters, no emails, not even a phone call.”

Stephen thought about pointing out that dead people probably didn’t make phone calls, but that would have been too callous, even for him.

Sometimes he wondered why he persevered with Cutter. Most of the time the guy didn’t seem to want him around, seemingly happy to wallow in his misery about his missing wife.

And Stephen _definitely_ didn’t need the guilt. Definitely didn’t need the pain of having to look Cutter in the eye every day, knowing what he’d done. He should just cut his losses. They’d both be much better off.

Except that he couldn’t. And they wouldn’t. At least, Cutter wouldn’t. No matter how much Cutter was mired in his own self-pity, no matter how much he tried to cut himself off from the world around him, the fact remained that he needed someone. He needed someone to stop him from completely self-destructing.

And that job appeared to have fallen to Stephen. Some kind of punishment, he supposed. He was finally getting his comeuppance.

Except that, if he was honest with himself, that _wasn’t_ why he stayed. He wasn’t exactly sure what the reason was, he just knew that he couldn’t leave Cutter to his fate.

“Do you think she’ll ever come back?” asked Cutter drunkenly. The couple at the next table looked over in annoyance at his loud tone. Stephen flashed them an apologetic smile, even as he felt his own flash of irritation that they seemed to have no sympathy for a man’s bereavement.

“Well…”

“Ah, she probably won’t,” Cutter pronounced bitterly. Then, in a much quieter voice, he added, “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“What? Why would you say that? You don’t know that.” Stephen tried to believe his own words.

“She’s dead,” Cutter asserted. “She’s dead, and she’s never coming back.”

To Stephen’s horror, he started to sob quietly. The next-door couple were now wearing disgusted looks, and this time Stephen glared at them, before standing up and heaving Cutter to his feet. Cutter continued to cry, dampening the shoulder of Stephen’s shirt.

“Come on, professor. I’m taking you home. Everything will seem much better in the morning.”

The platitude sounded false even to his own ears, but at this moment it was all he had to offer.

*   *   *   *   *

As Stephen entered the office there was a loud popping noise, and he ducked to the side as a cork went sailing past his head and out into the corridor beyond.

“Stephen! Finally! I was beginning to wonder where you were. Come and have a drink.”

Cutter waved the champagne bottle at him, and Stephen grinned as he sauntered down the stairs.

“What are we celebrating?”

“The grant came through. Come next summer, you and I are off to the rainforest!”

“That’s fantastic! Well done you!” Stephen enthused.

“Well done us,” Cutter corrected him. He poured a couple of glasses of champagne, and they clinked them together in a celebratory toast.

An hour later, the bottle was empty, and Stephen was feeling decidedly tipsy. Cutter wasn’t much better off, rambling about how fabulous their trip was going to be, and how much they were both going to learn.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Cutter said suddenly.

“I’m sure you could have filled in the grant application by yourself, Cutter.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Cutter. “I mean everything.  _Everything_.” He waved his arms expansively, sloshing the last dregs of his champagne over his hand. “I couldn’t have got through the last few years without you.”

“You would have been fine.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Cutter insisted. “Ever since Helen vanished, you’ve been like my rock. Stuck with me through thick and thin. The best friend a guy could have.”

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, sobering up rather rapidly. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Cutter,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter,” exclaimed Cutter. “Drunk or sober, I’d still feel the same. I couldn’t have done it without you. You’ve kept me sane.”

“Cutter, I don’t…”

“Don’t ever leave me, Stephen,” Cutter interrupted him. “I need you to stay with me.”

“Of course I will,” replied Stephen softly, ignoring the guilt gnawing at his insides. What would Cutter say if he knew the kind of friend Stephen really was?

“Stay with me,” Cutter repeated emphatically, although a pronounced slur now marred his words.

“I will,” said Stephen again. He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Why would I leave? After all, you’re my ticket to the rainforest…”

*   *   *   *   *

Giddy wasn’t normally a word Stephen would associate with Professor Nick Cutter. Come to think of it, it wasn’t really a word he’d associate with _himself_. But there was no other way to describe it – a combination of drunkenness and excitement had made them both completely and utterly giddy.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Cutter enthusiastically. “We’ll be able to answer all those questions that have plagued palaeontologists for years! Were dinosaurs hot or cold-blooded? Were they really the forerunners to birds? Was T-Rex a hunter or a scavenger? Hell, we might even be able to settle once and for all the debate about what caused the K-T extinction!”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?” said Stephen, scarcely less excited himself, but feeling that someone had to be the voice of reason in this conversation.

Cutter stuck his tongue out at him, a childish gesture that made Stephen snort with laughter. “Spoilsport.”

“Okay, okay, so we’ll become the world’s foremost experts on dinosaurs,” Stephen said. “Although aren’t you forgetting one thing?”

He could see Cutter’s brain trying, and failing, to think through the haze of alcohol. “What?”

“Lester. He’s not going to be very happy if you go shouting about real life dinosaurs to all and sundry.”

“Sod Lester. I’ll do what I bloody well like. These anomalies could be the answer to so many things. So many mysteries.”

“Like Helen?” Stephen didn’t want to bring her up, but the point was too obvious to ignore.

Something flickered across Cutter’s face, but it was gone before Stephen could really focus on it. It had almost looked like guilt, but what did Cutter have to be guilty about? After a couple of seconds he dismissed it as a result of his own alcohol consumption.

“Like Helen,” Cutter agreed. “This might explain where she’s been all these years. Trapped in the past, unable to come back and tell us about everything she’s seen.”

“It might,” said Stephen guardedly. “Or maybe she’s got nothing to do with the anomalies at all.”

“Do you really believe that?” Cutter challenged him.

Stephen paused. “No,” he admitted eventually. “No, I don’t. You’re right – somehow, Helen’s linked to the anomalies.”

“And now that we’re linked to the anomalies too, we’re certain to find her,” Cutter asserted. He sloshed some more Scotch into their glasses. “A toast. To the anomalies. And to finding what was lost.”

“To finding what was lost,” echoed Stephen, privately wondering if they were going to find a lot more than that.

*   *   *   *   *

The loud banging on the front door roused Stephen from his semi-doze, and wearily he stood up to answer it, staggering slightly when the effect of five bottles of beer hit him all at once.

He made his way down the hall with exaggerated care, and opened the door, knowing already who it would be.

“How long?” Cutter demanded, the instant he saw Stephen. Clearly he’d found refuge in alcohol, too – Stephen could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“How long what?”

How long were you sleeping with her?” Cutter barged past him into the living room. Stephen followed tiredly. Spying a half-finished bottle on the coffee table, he picked it up, draining the contents quickly to fortify himself.

“Not long,” he replied. “She got bored quickly.”

“Define ‘not long’,” Cutter insisted.

“Why do you want to know?” Stephen asked. “How is hearing the details going to help any?”

“Just tell me!” Cutter shouted.

Stephen flinched, but gave in. “About six weeks. She’d already dropped me by the time she disappeared.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“What would have been the point? She was gone. You were unhappy enough as it was. And then we became friends. I didn’t want to lose that.”

“Friends?” Cutter snorted in disbelief. “I think this proves you were never my friend, Stephen.”

“You’re wrong, Cutter,” said Stephen quietly, almost too tired to argue, but determined to try anyway. “Your friendship is the most important thing in my life. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did. I wish I’d told you right back at the beginning, before I really knew you. Before we became close. But then it was too late. And I couldn’t jeopardise our friendship. I just couldn’t.”

Some of Cutter’s anger seemed to drain away, then. But when he spoke Stephen heard disappointment, and somehow that was worse.

“You’re not the person I thought you were, Stephen,” Cutter said quietly. “You betrayed me and lied about it for eight years. How can you call that friendship?”

“Cutter, I…”

“Don’t.” Cutter held up a hand to stop him. “Just…don’t.” He turned away. “I’ll see you at work.”

And then he was gone. Stephen lifted the beer bottle again, but it was empty. It didn’t matter. There were plenty more in the fridge.

*   *   *   *   *

Work had turned into a special form of torture. Stephen knew he was tolerated, but nothing more. He was an outsider in his own team, and he desperately missed Cutter’s easy companionship and desire for his opinions. Connor and Abby didn’t deliberately exclude him, but it was clear they were on Cutter’s side.

It was very lonely, and he knew things couldn’t go on as they were.

Standing on Cutter’s doorstep, Stephen wondered whether the professor would even open the door to him, let alone allow him to say his piece. They were civil to one another during the day, but Cutter had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want any contact with Stephen outside the anomaly project.

It didn’t matter. He had to try.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked, and then watched Cutter’s blurred shape approaching the door through the glass. There was no way Cutter couldn’t know it was him, but to Stephen’s surprise the door did open. Although Cutter didn’t look particularly pleased to see him.

“What do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

“And why should I listen?”

“Because things can’t go on as they are. I…I think I should leave the project.” There, he’d said it.

Cutter looked momentarily surprised, but then stood back to allow Stephen entrance to the house.

Stephen made his way to the living room, surprised himself to note that there was no evidence of alcohol anywhere. When Cutter was upset or angry, he drank. That had been his way ever since Stephen had known him.

But not now, apparently. And when Stephen looked into Cutter’s eyes he could see that the anger there was icy and diamond-hard – quite unlike his hot, alcohol-fuelled rages. It scared him a little.

“What makes you think that leaving the project will make things any better?” Cutter asked quietly.

Stephen snorted disbelievingly. “How can you ask that? We can barely even stand to be in the same room together, never mind work as a team. And sooner or later one of us is going to get hurt because of that.”

“So you think running away is the answer? What about trying to fix things? Or are you too much of a coward?”

“You won’t let me fix things, Cutter!” Stephen all but shouted. “I’ve tried, but you just won’t let me! So what choice do I have but to leave?”

“Try harder,” Cutter said flatly.

“What?”

“Try harder,” he repeated. “Make me believe you want to make things right.”

“I do! Of course I do! I’d give anything for things to be okay between us!”

“You would?” Cutter sounded genuinely curious.

“Yes! Please, Cutter. You _have_ to believe me!”

Suddenly, shockingly, Cutter’s shoulders slumped, and he looked more tired than Stephen had ever seen him. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, I believe you.”

“What? You do?” Stephen couldn’t keep up with what was going on.

“Of course. I’ve wanted to believe you for so long, but I couldn’t let myself get hurt again. And you did hurt me, Stephen. More than you could possibly imagine.”

“What?” Stephen said again. “Cutter, what’s going _on_?”

“I wanted you, but you apparently wanted her,” Cutter said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. All his defences seemed to have crumbled, and Stephen knew he would never have said those words under any other circumstances. Not even drunk had he ever given any hint of _this_. “It was never about her. It was always about you.”

“Oh.” Stephen couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Cutter smiled crookedly. “And now you’ll still want to leave the project, won’t you?” he said. “Albeit for slightly different reasons.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Stephen replied roughly. Suddenly everything was making sense. “I’ve never left you before, so why would I leave you now?”

The hope in Cutter’s eyes made them sparkle, and Stephen smiled a smile of his own. The truth was sweeter than he’d ever realised.


End file.
